


Daughter of arrows and stars

by Elesianne



Series: Fëanorian marriages [14]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Insecurity, Names, Years of the Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:28:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26637355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elesianne/pseuds/Elesianne
Summary: Moriel, daughter of Caranthir, practises archery, gets advice from her father and receives a new name from her mother.
Relationships: Caranthir | Morifinwë & Caranthir's daughter
Series: Fëanorian marriages [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/608221
Comments: 12
Kudos: 23
Collections: Finwëan Ladies Week 2020





	1. Arrows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alkarinque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alkarinque/gifts).



> For Finwëan Ladies Week 2020, day 6: original characters, I chose to write about Carnistir and Tuilindien's daughter Moriel. This is a sequel to several fics but I don't think you don't need to have read them to read this.
> 
> This fic is dedicated to Alkarinque, as I promised many months ago, because you have inspired me with your enthusiasm and support to write more about Moriel. I hope that you like this.
> 
>  **Warning:** There is discussion about looks, a sense of belonging, and beauty standards in the first chapter. There is no heavy angst or dysmorphia but I thought I'd warn anyway.
> 
> Moriel is the elven equivalent of about nine or ten years here.

On most days Carnistir enjoys teaching his older daughter mathematics and the other subjects that he is more equipped to handle than Tuilindien. On days like this, though, when Moriel cannot keep still for five seconds at a time, he has to breathe deep to keep his fragile patience from fraying too far.

'Do you have ants in your socks and sleeves?' he snaps when her slate falls to the floor from her tapping her chalk on it too forcefully. 'As it seems you cannot keep your hands or feet still at all.'

For a reply, his daughter scowls. She is good at it, with her expressive black brows and her hair falling to her face as a curly dark curtain.

Carnistir stands up. 'Let's go outside.' Something physical to do will be easier for them both.

Moriel looks confused. 'We always do mathematics in the morning and outdoor and workshop lessons in the afternoons.'

'Today we're going to have archery practice in the morning and return to tackling arithmetic after lunch.'

He is not going to interrogate Moriel about why she is so restless. She will tell him when he is ready, he knows. He was the same as a child.

He picks up Vaniel from the sturdy wicker basket where she has been babbling quietly to herself. Her chubby cheeks spread to a wide answering smile when he smiles down at her. She is such a happy baby, content to wait in her basket during Moriel's morning lessons, easily soothed by warm thoughts from Carnistir if she becomes bored or disgruntled.

'Let us go see if your mother can look after you, sweetheart', Carnistir says to Vaniel, smoothing down her wrinkled tunic. She says something in reply but for now, her words are all her own, incomprehensible to others. She will speak soon, though, Tuilindien says, and her intuitions about their children tend to be right.

Moriel grabs the empty basket and the three of them make their way to Tuilindien's study a few doors down.

Moriel throws open the door and declares loudly to her mother, swinging the basket in her hands, 'I cannot keep still and arithmetic is boring today so papa and I are going to shoot some arrows.'

Carnistir wonders how his child inherited Makalaurë and Curufinwë's flair for drama. Well, it is Fëanáro's flair for drama, originally, so his father is to blame for this too.

Tuilindien puts down her quill. Carnistir is sorry to have interrupted her writing.

'Is that so?' she asks and comes to them, wide yellow skirt swishing quietly. 'Vaniel will be staying with me, then.' She takes the baby from Carnistir and kisses her cheek. 'Yes, my little darling, you are far too young for archery.'

'I am sorry for the intrusion on your work', Carnistir says while Moriel puts down the basket on Tuilindien's long desk and then sets to making faces for Vaniel to laugh at.

'It is all right. I would probably have had to come to feed her soon anyway. Well, Moriel dear, I wish you the best of luck. Any day now you'll outshoot your father.'

Moriel preens. 'He's not very good.'

Carnistir gives in to the childish temptation to roll his eyes while Tuilindien tries to hide her grin. 'I'm better with a hunting spear', he says.

'You should teach me to use it, then', says Moriel, snake-quick to take the opportunity.

'I'm not giving you a spear yet.'

'You could', Moriel argues, and they argue about it all the while they go change for archery and gather the things they need and make their way to the little practice area that is partially in the garden and partially in the orchard behind it.

It is a years-long argument already. Carnistir knows he will give in soon.

They practise for a while, starting by stretching and then Moriel shoots at the different targets while Carnistir corrects her stance and grip and other small things that he still knows a little better than she does. If Moriel's interest and improvement in archery endures, Carnistir will soon have to ask Tyelkormo to take over teaching her.

Suddenly, in the middle of attempting to hit the farthest target, Moriel lowers her bow and says, 'I don't like the way I look. I don't look like anyone.'

Carnistir's confusion must show because Moriel clarifies, 'Not like anyone in the family.'

Carnistir takes her bow and his and puts them down on the bench, sitting down next to them and drawing Moriel with him to sit beside him.

'I could list all your body parts and who they look like', he offers lamely. Her mother's skin tone, his freckles and eyes, the same texture as hair as Tuilindien has but the colour from him…

'No.' Moriel scoffs. 'As a whole I don't look like anyone in the family and I don't like it.'

Carnistir's first instinct is to protest, to deny that it matters at all who or what she looks like. But he knows from painful personal experience that it does – it took him until the moment of Moriel's birth to make his peace with his own looks – and he knows that Moriel often finds more value in logic and method than simple declarations of what is important in the speaker's opinion.

He begins at her very expanded family. 'I think that when you have more cousins – more great-grandchildren of grandfather Finwë, I mean – there will be more people in the family who look like you. Itarillë does, though she is still small.'

'Very small.' Moriel scrunches up her nose. 'She is never going to be tall, even when she grows up.'

'Well, her Vanya mother is short unlike yours. Let's see.' He leans against the back of the bench, warm in the light, Moriel a light, warm weight against his side. 'Cousin Findekáno –'

'Half-cousin', Moriel corrects, parroting her grandfather. This once Carnistir wishes she didn't. It is not conducive to what he is trying to say.

'Findekáno looks a lot like you', Carnistir plods on. 'With curly black hair and grey eyes and brown skin –'

'Darker than mine', Moriel interrupts again.

Carnistir ruffles her hair. 'Let me make my point, pipsqueak. He looks a lot like you. Perhaps, if you want to give your grandfather conniptions, you should wear your hair braided with gold one day.'

Moriel snorts. 'Only if I'm very angry with him some day.'

'There's a plan. To my next point: yes, you don't look very much like any of your cousins or aunts or uncles. Well, no one looks like Tyelkormo either, do they? Or me. My face is so different from Curvo and Cáno's.'

Moriel nods, grudgingly admitting the point.

'I still wish', she says. 'All of my Vanyarin cousins look so different from me, too.'

'They do', Carnistir admits. 'Because unfortunately none of your aunts had the good sense to marry a Noldo.'

That doesn't inspire laughter. Carnistir thought it rather funny.

Detaching Moriel from his side and turning to face her, he says, drawing gentleness from within himself and resorting to the approach he originally abandoned, 'It does not matter if you don't look much like anyone in the family. In our closest little family – you, me, your mama and Vaniel – no one looks much like anyone else but we belong together anyway.'

'We do.' Moriel sighs, and Carnistir can practically see her shoulders lose some of their tension.

He draws her in for a long hug, and she comes willingly now. Blowing frizzy curls out of his mouth and carding his fingers through them, Carnistir says, 'You will likely have more little sisters or brothers someday and they may well look like you.'

Without lifting her head, Moriel mumbles, 'It is not just that I don't look much like anyone I'm related to but also that… sometimes I feel that I am too tall and too strong. I have big hands and I'm as broad and tall as Tyelpë. It isn't… no maiden of song ever looks like that. I don't think I'm very pretty.'

 _What rot_ , Carnistir thinks, and considers saying so. Then he realises that he should not pause to think for too long lest she think that he agrees with her.

'I don't agree', he says, to make it as clear as possible.

'Of course you think I'm pretty. I am your daughter so you are biased.' She pulls away from him.

And she is sullen again. Carnistir sighs.

His father said something once about temperamental children usually growing into parents of temperamental children. Carnistir hates it when he is proven right.

'I think that songs and poems are often utter rot when it comes to people', he says, picking words one by one like flowers, careful. 'Too many of them only describe some stereotypical ideals. Only maidens with dark hair and white skin and maidens with golden hair and dark skin, isn't that so? Only the extremes, somehow that is poetic or romantic or something. But it is not true at all that only women who look like that are beautiful.

'The truth is', he says, growing rather heated now, 'that people think all sorts of people are pretty or handsome and like all sorts of people. And just as true is that when one day you start thinking of… marrying sort of things...'

He realises that he has raised his voice. Perhaps that is good? Perhaps it will help Moriel believe him.

He carries on doggedly even though, as he utters each word, he fears failing her. 'When you meet someone you love, even then it doesn't matter what those over-decorated peacocks at court think a beautiful person looks like, or the over-romantic souls who write the popular songs.

'When it matters – when it is someone that matters to you, and you matter to them – that is the only time that your looks will matter –'

Too many matters, he thinks, yet carries on.

'Then they – that person – will not be measuring you up in their mind or summing up your flaws. They'll be looking at you and they'll see you and if they find your – your strong will and your keen eye and your vigilant care of your sister beautiful, then they'll find you beautiful.'

Moriel listens quietly, dark eyes intent on his, clutching a bent arrow in her hand still.

Carnistir ends, words still sticky on his tongue, with, 'What is to you beauty unseen will be blindingly bright for someone who loves you. As it already is to your mother and me.'

'Is that from a poem?' Moriel asks. 'From beauty unseen to blindingly bright.'

Carnistir can feel colour rise to his cheeks. 'No, it is just… the words that I arrived at when I thought about this.'

'You're always saying that you're not a poet. But you might be, secretly', Moriel says in the same tone as she might say an insult. It is hypocritical of her since she enjoys almost all music and much of poetry, too.

'I'm not a poet', Carnistir says. 'Only your father. And – and I'm not handsome', he adds. Tuilindien is always telling him not to say so but he has always believed in being honest to himself and about himself. 'But your mother loves me', he says to Moriel. 'The reason she did not marry me as soon as I'd have liked had nothing to do with what I look like, or it did in that way that only she can see.'

Moriel still looks dubious but she says, 'You are very happy. You and mama.'

'Yes, we are. Moriel, my darling, there is – I do not have good words for it but as I said there is a connection of spirits between friends and family that has little to do with looks and everything with, with what sort of a spirit you have.' The words are pouring out of him. 'If you like what a person's _fëa_ is like you will like their _hröa_ too. I never thought the Vanyar so beautiful before I met your mother.'

'I am brave', Moriel says, and she is, too foolhardy for even Carnistir's taste. 'I'm loyal like grandpapa Fëanáro is always saying we should be to our family and friends. I learn many things fast and I am a good sister to Vaniel and a good cousin to Tyelpë.'

'You are', Carnistir agrees, his chest tight at his brave girl's summary of herself. His lesson to her has become all muddled, but she seems to be taking some solace in it, and that is the important thing. 'You are smart and strong. Strength is beautiful, and skill.' Thinking of Moriel's patience and care with her baby sister, he adds, 'And kindness. A deeper beauty.'

'I also get grumpy too easily like you.' And she is honest like him, straight-spoken. 'But I know how to ask for forgiveness.'

'You have learned to do it much faster than I did.'

'You're a good teacher, papa.' Moriel pulls a grimy handkerchief out of her pocket and blows her nose on it. Carnistir makes a mental note to get her a clean one when they go inside.

She drops the bent arrow on the ground and picks up her bow. 'Let's shoot again.'

'Alright', Carnistir concedes. If Moriel doesn't have more to say, he doesn't know what to say either. 'Let us start by fetching the arrows you have shot so far.'

He goes to pull out the arrows Moriel managed to shoot into the targets while she searches around for the ones that fell short.

She sees that two embedded themselves into trees, and grimaces as she pulls them out.

'We will hear about this from the gardener and your mother both', Carnistir notes, grimacing as well.

He watches Moriel use all her strength to pull a stubbornly embedded arrow from a _yavannamírë_ tree, the muscles in her bare forearms tensing.

'I know who you look like', he says. He doesn't know how he did not see it before.

With a hoop of victory and a few stumbling steps backwards, Moriel manages to pull out the arrow.

'Who?' she asks, bringing the arrows to their shooting line.

'My mother.' Even as Moriel begins protesting, Carnistir begins listing. 'You are tall and broad-shouldered, and nimble-fingered and strong-armed, and you have freckles you inherited from me and her. The different hair and skin is a small thing compared to all that. I believe that when you are grown and stand side by side with her, the resemblance will be remarkable.'

Moriel is quiet, the bunch of arrows still in her hand. 'I think I would like that. Especially if I will be as skilled as she is.'

'You will be. You have the same passion, and learning will be easier when you are naturally strong.'

As long as Moriel has known how to say it, she has been saying that she wants to be a smith. What kind of smith she intends to become changes every week, but the passion burns steady.

'Thank you, papa', Moriel says abruptly. 'I know you don't like talking about things like this and you think that mama is better at it. But sometimes I need… she is so nice; you know how she is. Sometimes it is too much for me.'

Carnistir clears his throat. 'Let's shoot twenty arrows, then we go inside for lunch. And then you need to talk with your mother, too, about whatever it is she wanted to talk to you about.'

Moriel stares at the targets, then turns to Carnistir with a grin, almost herself again. 'If I hit the farthest target on more than half of my tries, can I get two portions of dessert?'

He is too soft with her, he _knows_ he is, yet he says, 'If you promise to eat enough actual lunch too.'

'I promise.'

She hits that target on all but one of her tries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a shorter second chapter that I have posted already.


	2. Stars

At dinner that evening, Moriel can see her mother stealing glances at her, probably to see if what was causing her restlessness earlier in the day has passed. Her mother is not much good at subtlety, and it doesn't take long for Moriel to grow tired of her concerned looks.

She puts down her spoon with too much of a clatter. 'Mama, I am all right', she says.

'Blurgh', says Vaniel who is getting acquainted with soup for the first time. She does not seem very impressed.

'I am glad if you are', mother says. 'Did the archery help, then?'

'Mm.' Moriel picks up her spoon and starts eating her soup again. It is good even if Vaniel doesn't think so. 'And papa and I talked.'

'You did?' Mother glances at father in that way they have. Moriel knows they are talking about her without saying anything.

'Don't do that', she grumbles. 'Please', she remembers to add though not before her mother's chastising look.

'Very well, I will ask you directly, then', mother acquiesces. 'Did talking with your papa help with whatever was on your mind?'

'It did.' Vaniel splashes at her soup, poking at it with a finger before father can stop her. Moriel gives her her dessert spoon to play with instead.

'I am glad', mother says again. 'There is something I have been meaning to talk to you about as well, Moriel dear.'

In her excitement, Moriel drops her spoon again. 'My name?'

She does not have a mother-name. She is unusually old for that but she hasn't minded it much so far, not really.

Many years ago mother asked her if it would be all right with her to wait a bit longer to see if she gets some special insight for a name, like mothers sometimes do, and Moriel said that it was. Then, a year ago, when she hadn't received any foresight or anything like that, mother had told Moriel of a name she'd thought of for her, a bird's name. Mother has a bird name – from _tuilindo_ , swallow – and so do her sisters and many of their children.

She had asked, 'Do you like the name?' and Moriel had said no, because she didn't. It didn't feel like hers.

Mother had looked sad but said, 'Then it is not your name.'

'Maybe – maybe not a bird name', Moriel had said. She couldn't say why not, though; she didn't know. She does like birds.

Mother had accepted it. 'I will think of another kind of name, then. It will likely take some time. It turns out that I am very slow at naming children.'

Now mother says, with a smile at Moriel's enthusiasm, 'Yes, your name.'

'Tell me! Please', Moriel adds at a disapproving grunt from her father's direction.

Mother laughs and asks, 'Do you want to know right here and now, or wait until after dinner when we can talk, just you and I? Either way', she continues despite Moriel beginning to ask for her name now, 'please, mama'.

'Either way', mother says, 'you can refuse it if it doesn't feel like yours, and I will keep trying.'

'Now', says Moriel. She tries to keep from falling off her chair in her excitement.

(She is very old not to have a mother-name. Even Tyelpë, who is almost always nice and incidentally received his mother-name at one day old, has remarked on it.)

'Elerrína', says mother, her smile the same nervous one now that it is when she talks with grandpapa Fëanáro. 'I hope that perhaps you do not mind being named after a mountain?'

Elerrína is one of the names of Taniquetil, the holy mountain where mother grew up. Moriel thinks that it might be the least used one. She knows it only from songs, but she knows that it means 'crowned with stars'. Taniquetil is very high but not so high as to reach the stars, so it is a sort of poetic near-sensible name.

'Elerrína', Moriel says, testing the weight and shape of it on her tongue. It is longer and prettier than Moriel. It is similar in meaning if not form to aunt Tinweriel's name.

'For your freckles, my darling', mother says.

'Oh', says Moriel. She likes that. The name makes her freckles sound beautiful.

'I don't mind being named after a mountain', she says to her mother decisively. 'I want to be Elerrína. It's a mountain where Vanyar live and it's my Vanyarin name. Moriel is my Noldorin name.'

'You can take some time to decide which you prefer to be called.'

'I don't need time. I want to be called Moriel in Tirion and Elerrína on the plains and in Valmar and on Taniquetil. But you can always call me Moriel', she nods at her father, 'and mama, I like the way you say Elerrína, you can call me by it anywhere.'

'Being called by a different name in a different place is unconventional but it sounds like something that will fit you well', her mother. She gets up and comes to hug Moriel, pressing a kiss on her head. 'I am glad that you like the name', she whispers in her ear. 'I am sorry it took me so long to think of it.'

Moriel hugs her back. 'I didn't mind. I like being Moriel, too. Moriel Elerrína', she says, feeling out the combination. 'My name has rather a lot of r's.'

'Suits you', says father.

Moriel squints at him dubiously. She decides that she is too happy to get vexed.

Mother goes back to her own chair. 'I am already considering mother-names for Vaniel so that she might not have to wait as long', she says. 'I have learned, now, that I should not wait for any sort of foresight to inspire a name. It seems that that gift has passed me by though my father sometimes has inklings of things yet to happen.'

And from there mother and father launch into a long discussion about knowing things in advance of them happening. Moriel is not interested in it so she goes back to eating, tasting and savouring her new name along with every spoonful of soup.

'Elerrína, Elerrína', she whispers to herself. 'Star-crowned.'

'Sarrrb', says Vaniel.

'Quite so', Moriel agrees. 'Star-crowned.' She wipes mushed pea from Vaniel's cheek. Father is distracted with mother and not keeping much of an eye on Vaniel. It's alright; Moriel likes helping her during meals.

'I hope that mother will think of as pretty a name for you', Moriel says to her little sister.

**Author's Note:**

> In [ Names of insight, foresight, love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10354989/chapters/22879149) I had Nerdanel asking her children whether they liked their mother-names before making the final choice of naming them thus. Tuilindien has the kind of nature where she would happily follow Nerdanel's example so I wrote her doing so.
> 
> If you want to read more about all of Moriel and Vaniel's names, I made a meta post about them [here](https://elesianne.tumblr.com/post/631974920622063616/the-names-of-carnistirs-daughters).
> 
> Thank you for reading, I would love to hear what you guys thought about this!
> 
> I'm also on [Tumblr](https://elesianne.tumblr.com/).


End file.
